Here I Go Again: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  But first I need to buy a new laptop, as it would appear that I’ve just thrown this one against my office door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Strange Fascination,

  Fascinating Me

  I’m pawing through Best Buy’s (frankly pathetic) metal CD offerings when a voice behind me says, “Lissy? Lissy Ryder?”

  I turn around to find someone clad in a cornflower blue polo shirt and rumpled khakis. The guy seems to be about my age, and from what I understand, no one’s called me that name in years, which is a crying shame. Why did future me stop using it? Melissa Connor is so commonplace, but Lissy Ryder? There’s a certain panache and musicality to that name. Melissa Connor is your ophthalmologist or your neighbor or the name after yours on the phone tree, but Lissy Ryder is someone special. Melissa Connor returns her library books on time, whereas Lissy Ryder’s too busy living it up to read. Melissa Connor remembers to recycle all the bottles Lissy Ryder emptied. Melissa Connor can do your taxes, but Lissy Ryder? She can rock your world.

  Anyway, by this person’s knowing me as Lissy, my assumption is that this is an LT alum. (Lion pride!) His outfit says, I work here, but the rest of him says, Mom lets my band rehearse in her garage. His long, wavy hair is held back with a leather thong (not the underpants kind), and his tattoos, while both graphic and abundant, are strictly amateur. Each finger is wrapped in a silver ring, some shaped like skulls and some like pentagrams, and his wrists are stacked with all manner of woven, studded leather bracelets. His forked beard is an homage to either Scott Ian of Anthrax or James Hetfield of Metallica. (Possibly both.)

  I’m trying to place his face. He’s familiar and yet he’s not. LT didn’t have any rockers like this; trust me, I’d have made it my business to know them. But this guy seems tickled to see me and I appreciate that. Between my dad’s big news and the hit my professional liability insurance is about to take, I could stand a little positive interaction. I muster as much fake enthusiasm as I can. “Hey! Yeah, it’s . . . you! It’s been too long!”

  He claps me lightly on the shoulder, then throws the horns. “Right? Lissy! Lissy ‘Rock Star’ Ryder!”

  Do you see what I mean? He gets it. Lissy Ryder is a patently stupendous name.

  He eyes me appreciatively. Again, see? This is the kind of difference adding a splash of hot pink can do for someone’s outfit. “Serendipitous to run into you, girl! I haven’t seen you since graduation! What dirty business have you been up to?”

  Okay, definitely a Lion. But which one? Even though we were in a class of almost a thousand, everyone still knew everyone, which is both the privilege and the curse of living in suburbia.

  I rattle off the Reader’s Digest condensed version of my life and he’s very excited when I mention that I’m a music publicist.

  His whole face lights up. “No way! I’m a musician!” He looks over his shoulder all conspiratorially. “Best Buy is just a day job to pay the bills and I’m out of here the minute things break for me.”

  “How long have you worked here?” I ask.

  “Seven years. But I’m in a Metallica tribute band called the Metallicats. Got a regular gig at Durty Nellie’s in Palatine on Tuesday nights—hey, you should come and check us out! We do a version of ‘Enter Sandman’ that fuckin’ wails. Rock!” To demonstrate, he launches into a rather extensive air guitar solo.

  Yeah, there’s a hundred percent probability that I’m never going to Palatine for any reason, but I don’t want to sound snotty, so I say, “That sounds great, um . . .”

  “It’s Steve,” he supplies. “Steve Ramey. Or Steeeeeve-o, like the rest of the band calls me. Wow, Lissy Ryder.”

  “In the flesh.” I give him a little curtsy.

  “Funny seeing you after all this time. I mean, since you changed my life.”

  I already don’t like the sound of this.

  “Yeah, man. I was such a fuckin’ tool in high school. ‘Oh, look at me; I’m in the orchestra wearing my gay tuxedo shirt!’ But then . . .”

  He keeps talking while I process this information. Wait, Steve Ramey! Of course! The guy who couldn’t come to the reunion because he was on tour with Maroon 5! Steve—I mean Steve-o—was the classically trained pianist who went on to be a huge studio musician in L.A. He’s laid tracks with everyone from the Rolling Stones to Christina Aguilera. The general public may not know his name, but they’ve certainly heard his melodies.

  Except that he’s standing here in a Best Buy shirt, so . . .

  “. . . and that’s when I gave up the piano for the ax. Best decision I ever made. Come on, the lead guitar gets exponentially more mad naked ass than the keyboard player. If you hadn’t educated me on real music, who knows where I’d be?”

  Sweet child o’ mine, I know where you’d be . . . famous in your field, well paid for doing what you love, and mad naked ass-deep in Adam Levine’s castoffs.

  We exchange a few more pleasantries and I promise Steve-o I’ll see what I might be able to do for him and the Metallicats. I give him my business card (noting that I’m president and CEO) and he throws me the horns again.

  “Sleep with one eye open, Lissy, girl!”

  “You’ve got it, Steve-o.” As I head back to the computer section, I hear him attempting to talk a tween out of a Taylor Swift album in favor of Pantera.

  I buy the first laptop that catches my eye and I drive home, so lost in thought I almost miss the turn to my street.

  My mind is racing with possibilities, none of them good. Why does this keep happening? First Nicole, then Amy Childs, now Steve-o? Who else has gone precariously off-track due to my ripples? I mean, Steve-o seems content hustling CDs at Best Buy and playing hard rock in tiny venues, but if he knew where he could have been, he’d probably want to kill self-comma-others.

  If I had any idea that changing my past would have impacted others, I’d never have done it.

  Wait, Melissa Connor would never have done it.

  But Lissy Ryder?

  She’d have done exactly what was in her best interests and wouldn’t have ever looked back.

  But maybe now I’m some odd confluence of both of them, because I would and did, yet now I feel racked with guilt about it.

  * * *

  New laptop? Check.

  Lyons Township High School Class of 1992 Facebook reunion page? Check.

  Bottle of wine? Check.

  Backup bottle of wine? Checkity-check.

  Let’s do this.

  I scan the list and see dozens of familiar, albeit older faces. You know what’s interesting? Every person who’s had children looks categorically older than those of us who didn’t. Fact. It’s like children suck out everyone’s life force or something. Yeah, you may have a little someone to wear matching sundresses with and write braggy Christmas letters about, but the trade-off is, you’re going to look like the Crypt Keeper long before your time. So not worth it, if you ask me.

  Anyway, who should I click on first? Let’s see, here’s Meredith Falcone’s RSVP.

  Oh, bummer, she’s not coming to the reunion for unspecified reasons, but she’s probably tied up with New York Times food critic business. Now that I have my own impressive career, I’m not overwrought with jealousy over her success. Actually, I’m happy for her . . . and for me the next time I need a restaurant hookup in New York. But just to be safe, let’s make sure that all is well in her world before I book a flight.

  Let’s see, her Facebook picture is a bowl of something beige and the page links to a Web site. Lemme click it and that takes me to . . .

  WhatsInMeredithsMouth.com

  Ha! That’s clever! Her Web page is professionally laid out and it’s ringed in neutral-colored photographs of food. I don’t see any obvious links to her business details but maybe that’s how it works when you’re a restaurant critic. They’re oddly secretive in some ways, like they wear disguises out to dinner and stuff.

  Anyway, I begin by reading the top blog entry.

  “Hooray for oat
meal! I love oatmeal so much! It’s soooo good for me and healthy and nutritious and it makes me feel like I’m being hugged from the inside! If I had a best friend, it would be oatmeal!”

  Um . . . that must be some high-end, gastronomic, small-batch, local, organic oatmeal. What, does Bouley do breakfast now or something? And are microgreens involved? Every time food is overly fancy for no apparent reason, microgreens seem to come into play. Or arugula. All the top chefs are big on arugula again, except they call it rocket. I don’t really understand why. It’s still arugula, right? And what the hell is celery root and yuzu jelly? If I connect with Meredith in NYC, I’ll have to ask her these questions.

  “Today’s batch is super-duper special. After I made the base, I added sooo many taste-licious mix-ins! As you can see, I sprinkled on butterscotch nibs, a handful of granola, a crumbled cinnamon-chip muffin, some peanut butter, some apple butter, chocolate-covered cashews, and lots of shaved coconut!”

  So, you’re clearly not diabetic, Meredith. But maybe “craft oats” are all the rage now and comfort food trucks are over? Damn it, why do I keep hitting these trends at the tail end? If everyone jumps back on the exotic raw-fish train, I’m going to be sorely disappointed. I was just getting my macaroni-and-meatball groove on.

  “Woo!!! This is the creamiest, doughiest, bestest batch ever! I’m überexcited to put it in my mouth! Get in my tummy!”

  Okay, maybe Meredith doesn’t have time for lunch and isn’t reviewing a new restaurant until really late and this is the only chance she has to eat for hours. Otherwise, I’m not sure why she’s so psyched to be taking in twenty-five hundred calories of bland multigrains at breakfast.

  Vaguely confused, I scroll down to the next entry.

  “Give me an O! Give me an A! Give me a T! Give me an M! Give me an E! Give me another A! Give me an L! What does it spell? OATMEAL! What are we eating? OATMEAL! What do we love? Oatmeal! What do we put on our oatmeal? Jam and cream cheese and chia seeds and blueberry trail mix and sunflower butter and crumbled Girl Scout Samoas and Starbucks’ frosted maple scone chunks!”

  Wait, this is her lunch? After that breakfast? Did she have oral surgery? Is she only able to gum her meals? And what the hell is she planning to eat for dinner?

  I keep reading.

  Hey! Guess what! It’s more oatmeal, only this time she’s added two pulverized bananas, White Chocolate Wonderful peanut butter, a handful of hazelnuts, and a healthy sprinkling of candy corns.

  What is going on here?

  Does Meredith really have oatmeal for every meal outside of work? And if she’s going to write about food, wouldn’t she be . . . better at it? And I’m no one to judge, based on my new taste for comfort food, but what’s up with all the sugar-laden toppings?

  I keep tabbing.

  Good Lord, she’s covered this oat-y batch with circus peanuts and crushed Jolly Ranchers! Is she insane? Is this some kind of foodie inside joke? And why isn’t she talking about the gourmet repasts she’s having in New York’s finest eateries?

  I scroll down some more.

  Oh, honey, you didn’t really just slap a slab of Boston cream pie on your oats, right?

  Unless this photograph is a lie.

  Whoa, now you’re blending your oats with spinach and topping them with s’mores and pine nuts? That makes me want to throw up a little in your mouth! Meredith, I thought you had a refined palate!

  Unless . . . she’s been another victim of the universe shift.

  Argh! Not Meredith, too!

  I tab through page after page, desperately hoping for something other than Meredith’s salute to the humble oat, and I start to feel sick . . . and not just because she served sardines on top of her oatmeal in this last photo. (Although that isn’t helping.)

  Let’s figure this out right now. I pull up the Times Web site and input her name.

  “Your search ‘Meredith Falcone’ did not match any documents under ‘Past 7 Days.’”

  I try again.

  “Your search ‘Meredith Falcone’ did not match any documents under ‘Past 30 Days.’”

  What are the odds she’s on some colon-cleansing vacay and she’ll be back to reviewing all New York’s übertrendy bistros shortly?

  “Your search ‘Meredith Falcone’ did not match any documents under ‘Past 12 Months.’”

  And just for good measure . . .

  “Your search ‘Meredith Falcone’ did not match any documents under ‘All Results Since 1851.’”

  I fill my wineglass to the rim and then chug half of it down in one gulp.

  I’m so sorry, Meredith. I don’t care how much you seem to be enjoying your job blogging for Big Oatmeal, it can’t compare to what should have been your future as a restaurant critic.

  I take a few more healthy swallows before moving on.

  Next victim? Jeremy Bloomquist, the mathstronaut who should be working for NASA.

  Yet is actually working for Nassau.

  As in the Nassau County Department of Storm Water Management. On the one hand, it’s nice that he’s helping to reduce pollutants in the New York State water table, but I’m guessing that his job as junior project administrator doesn’t quite compare to that of captaining a space shuttle.

  Sigh.

  And drink.

  Et tu, Jeremy, et tu?

  I’m suddenly heartened when I see that Madonna/Robert is working in the fashion industry. But my hopes for him are dashed upon learning he does so in the men’s shoe department at the Schaumburg JCPenney. Not that there’s anything wrong with retail—it’s just a long, long way from showing your line at Bryant Park.

  The hits keep on coming.

  No one is what they were supposed to be. Brooks Paddy isn’t a big-time Hollywood player. This time around she still lives with her parents and has a part-time gig on the bookmobile. And, for the record, she has not been to Jenny.

  As for sweet, easily influenced Kimmy, instead of working as a senior-level flight attendant on the glamorous Paris-to-Dubai hop, she’s living in Cicero, Illinois, and married to Chet, who’s actively cheating on her. At least, that’s what I assume when I run across his Match.com profile.

  I can’t find any updates on April, Tammy, or Brian Murphy, and I don’t know if I should be relieved or concerned. But if their presents are anything like everyone else’s, I’m erring on the side of concerned.

  I snap shut my laptop and pull out my phone.

  Me: will I see u on friday at the reunion?

  Deva: with balls on!

  I’m not touching that statement.

  Me: things r seriously out of whack. need ur help

  Deva: will disco in person, looser roadway

  Me: discuss?

  Deva: no, disco! is a party, want 2 dance! also discuss a fix, but looking forward 2 doing the hustler and electric slit

  Me: thx, see you then

  Deva: ta-tas

  Okay, so maybe I can put screwing up everyone’s future to bed once I see Deva.

  But first, family Thanksgiving.

  I’m not sure which task is more daunting.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Watching Some Good Friends Scream, “Let Me Out”

  “Let us never speak of this again.”

  That’s my proclamation as Duke, Nicole, and I drive back to the city from La Grange after the tag-team wrestling match better known as the Beaulieu/Ryder family Thanksgiving. Mamma wanted us to stay over, but we live less than thirty minutes away.

  Also, I was afraid someone would be stabbed in their sleep.

  My mother, sensing my father’s resoluteness about the whole retirement thing, has upped her normal level of vitriol to that of your garden-variety Axis power dictator. Imagine Mussolini, only clad in a Chanel suit with a penchant for saying “y’all.”

  To complicate matters, my mother called in reinforcements. Aunt Sissy and Cousin Gussie came up from Savannah to form the most unholy trinity in Christendom, with Gussie’s five towheaded junior totalitarians prov
iding enough scathing background commentary to make even the strongest among us crack.

  But Daddy, bless his heart, stood up to them, for what I believe to be the first time in his life. He went so far as to tell Aunt Sissy that he’d be more prone to listen to her if she hadn’t buried poor, overworked Uncle Jack last year and if Gussie’s husband hadn’t taken off with a Waffle House waitress. (Side note: What is it with powerful men and Waffle House waitresses? I’m sensing a disturbing trend.)

  Anyway, that’s right about when the first handful of sweet potato casserole went flying. Mamma claimed it came from one of the kids, but her orange palm told a different story.

  Daddy eventually locked himself in his library, saying he wasn’t coming out until it was time to go boat shopping on Sunday. As he has a couch, a bathroom, and a minifridge full of snacks, I’m inclined to believe him.

  Then Mamma (and company) turned on me, claiming this was all my fault, and I was flabbergasted. Mamma said that everything she demanded from Daddy was for my benefit.

  The old Lissy would have absolutely been on board, but the new Melissa in me just can’t. I’ll never forget the way Daddy spoke at lunch and I can’t bear to take away anything else that he’s earned.

  That’s right about when Duke’s migraine started and we had to excuse ourselves from dinner.

  We said good-bye to my father through the door and he promised to e-mail me a photo of his new boat as soon as he got it. And now we’re on the way home, with Duke in the backseat, a cold washcloth pressed over his eyes.

  Nicole’s rocking a little in the passenger seat. “Eight years. I spent eight years in the public school system and I’ve never seen more horrible children.”

  “They’re worse than ChaCha?” I ask.

  Nicole snorts. “Without a doubt. That girl is rough around the edges, but she’s not incorrigible. Her manners are the problem, not her soul. As for your nieces and nephews? Sure, at a cursory glance, they’re perfect little ladies and gents. They know which fork to use when and they call everyone ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir.’ Just because they’re polite doesn’t mean they’re not the Children of the Corn, though. The young one? With the kitten smile and the adorable lisp? In the pink pinafore with the sideswept bangs secured by the big bow? She said, ‘Was it your life’s ambition to be a spinster, Miss Nicole?’ What kind of kid says that? Suddenly I’m not quite so anxious to fill out the adoption paperwork.”